W hen they divided up the year,
Demeter chose, for her own, the
months when the days start getting lon-
ger. It was easier that way. It meant that
she delivered her daughter to her ex-
husband in the late, bright Montana
summer and she could handle it then,
most of the time, with a little phannaceu-
tical help. She coulcin't handle giving her
up in the dead of winter.
Hank could have fought for sole cus-
tody, since Demeter had a reputation for
erratic behavior. But granting her half the
year had been a gesture on his part: gen-
erosity as a sign of power. He would not
have it said that he took a child from her
mother. He was always more subde than
that.
Perry, their daughter, had been unex-
pected, the pregnancy a buoyant gift at a
time when Demeter and Hank were like
drowning people, tugging each other
under. But the moment Demeter saw the
pink thing in the nurse's arms, the tiny
creature that had turned her inside out,
she knew the baby wasn't going to save
her marriage. It was only going to break
her heart. They hadn't named her Perse-
phone; that would have been unfair. They
had named her Elizabeth, after Hank's
mother, but Hank started calling her
Perry Mason early on, for her steady in-
fant gaze that would break down any wit-
ness, and it stuck.
At thirteen, Perry had the pert fea-
tures and turned-up nose of a figure
skater, although she wasn't one. She
hadn't yet found the thing she might be
very good at. Hank hoped it would be
science: he wanted his daughter to be
straightforward and rational. Demeter
hoped it would be music: she wanted
Perry to be darker and more complicated.
At the dinner table, when they were still
living in one house, Perry had looked
from one to the other of them as if they
came from the moon. Her strange par-
ents. Only she was of the earth.
Hank had bought her an oversized
pink nylon duffelbag, and Perry carried it
back and forth between the two houses.
He'd made more money after the divorce
than he ever had before, with new in-
come from oil leases, and he owned a big
house on a hill now, with a new red truck
outside.
Demeter parked, and Perry leaned
over in the passenger seat and kissed her
quickly on the cheek, eager to avoid any
dr " B M " h . d " L "
ama. ye, om, s e sa!. ove you.
Then she lugged the duffel toward the
house, her bare legs in blue shorts taking
her blithely away.
It wasn't natural to give up your child
every year. It wasn't right. Demeter knew
that Hank could say the same thing, but
she had no interest in being fair to Hank,
and she had carried that child inside her
body. She had fed her with her own
blood, and then from heavy, unfamiliar
breasts. She had held Perry when she was
sick and vomiting, her hair damp with
fever.
She watched her daughter twist her
shoulders to get the wide bag through the
front door, without a look back The dark
interior of the house engulfed her. The
screen door slammed shut.
Demeter sat alone in the car. The tears
shouldn't have surprised her, but they did.
They came hot and choking. Her jaw
shook. Her nose ran. She knew she should
leave, and not embarrass Perry or give
Hank anything to comment on, but she
couldn't see to drive.
Finally Perry came back outside and
leaned in through the car's open window.
" M " h . d
om, s e sa! .
Demeter fumbled for a tissue. "I'm
"
sorry.
Perry got into the car and sat looking
at her hands, with their chewed cuticles.
"You chose this," she said.
Demeter wanted to say that she would
have died if she had stayed with Hank,
but she tried to be discreet in front of their
daughter. "I know."
"And you picked the dates."
"1 did. l'm all right, sweetie."
''You're not."
"N 0, really I am." She blew her nose
decisively. ''You can go inside."
Trouble clouded Perris pretty face.
" M "
om.
Demeter didn't want to be doing this,
to be taking this perfect child and putting
the pain in. "1' mO. K. I just needed a
minute. Don't watch too much TV, all
right?"
" I ' t "
won.
"And no jet skis."
"He doesn't have a jet ski."
"No jet skis!" Demeter said. "Theyre
death machines."
" All . hi "
rl g. .
"0. K."
"O.K.," Perry said. "Bye." She got out
and waved. Those long legs carried her
back into Hank's world, where she would
do Hankish things. Water ski, even if
there were no jet skis. Eat red meat every
night, and too much sugar. She belonged
to her father now.
As Demeter drove down the hill, away
from Hank's house, she felt as if there
were a cord attached to her viscera that
was stretching, pulling. When she was
young, she had liked to say that she would
never have regrets. Her life was her life,
her choices her choices, and she would
stand by it all. But she did have a regret
now. She wished she had never had a
child.
She pulled the car over to the curb,
startled by the thought. It was true. She
couldn't wish her daughter away now,
but if she had a time machine she would
go back and erase the conception. Then
there wouldn't be this agony, there
wouldn't be the black times. She would
have found other sources of love, and she
wouldn't have this gnawing emptiness.
One tiny erasure and everything would
be different. Catastrophe avoided.
She pressed her hands against her ster-
num to stop the ache. She had always
known that Perry was mostly Hank's.
That cross-examining stare came straight
from him. She had his logical mind and
his quiet stubbornness. But that didn't
make it less painful to give her up.
F inally she got herselfhome, parked
beneath the big maple tree, and
went inside her little house. It was dark
and empty. The refrigerator hummed.
She had no television-a fact that was
eternally embarrassing to Perry-so
she switched on the radio, to have
some companionable sound. "Star-
D "
ate was on.
Hank had told her long ago that she
had a voice for radio, but she had never
pursued it. What she had was a campfire
voice, mellow and clear at low volume.
She had met Hank at a bonfire, where
he played songs in her range on his gui-
tar so they could harmonize. She was
impossibly young then, with wheat-col-
ored hair. She'd sat cross-legged on the
cold ground and watched the embers
burn, but she knew he was watching her,
listening through the other voices for
hers. When the fire died down, he'd
wrapped his coat around her shoulders
and she was his.
She opened the refrigerator. There
THE NEW YORKER, NOVEMBER 19, 2012 77